Thursday's child has far to go.

I have an interview on Secretary's--excuse me--Administrative Professional's Day, to be an Analyst and not an Administrative Professional, because everyone and their mom, including the inmate population, feels the need to point out how unprofessional I am. I think it's quite asinine that they're making me interview when I've worked there for two years, but whatever. I'll do it. I can simply no longer stand to be the party responsible for ordering copy paper and toner for people who print out their own equivalent to Atlas Shrugged all day every day.

But first I had to go downtown and take the exam for Analyst. The room was filled with women who began to weep as soon as it became apparent that they were not capable of determining the standard deviation of anything. I didn't cry, but sighed extremely loudly the entire three-hour period. I fail to see how nervous breakdown-inducing math will aid me in my career as a governmental employee. But according to the letter in my mailbox the following week, I'm a successful candidate for analyzing and/or telling you when two trains going opposite directions at 88 miles per hour will meet in Hill Valley provided they don't see each other and destroy the space time continuum.

If they don't promote me, I'm moving on to the Department of Alcoholic Beverage Control, where I assume that they at least let you drink all day. It would be a welcome change from the current hostile environment where they send staff-wide discriminatory emails about the status of Sunshine Club members:

You can probably guess which one I am. And fuck you, Colleen S, for sullying my good name.